


Lend Your Ears

by lyonet



Series: A Right Turn After Bad Idea [7]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7562593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyonet/pseuds/lyonet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Arthur likes company, and Morgana likes an audience,” Gwen went on, taking a bite of her sandwich. “And they both like showing off. They went through a few stages of stealing each other’s friends before they realised it was possible to share.”</p>
<p>“Much shock, so surprise,” Merlin muttered, scrolling through the deluge of texts in his inbox. Two were from Arthur, confirming their weekend plans to visit Hunith, and one was from Morgana, sharing a filthy meme, but there were also messages from Elena (the link to a music video in which everyone wore bright blue make-up and were having identity crises with a tambourine), Gwaine (a rambling stream of consciousness about the language of flowers), Mithian (a brunch invitation) and Mordred, who Merlin didn’t even remember getting properly introduced to but who had apparently acquired his phone number by telepathy – or more probably, Morgana – and wanted to talk about changing the socio-economic foundations of modern civilisation ‘when you have a minute to chat’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lend Your Ears

There were many incomprehensible things about Arthur Pendragon. His insistence on waking at dawn three times a week to go to the gym before work, despite the fact he disliked that hour of the day as much as Merlin did; his inability to order coffee without having half a dozen different spices or syrups added to it, because he didn’t actually like the taste of coffee but drank it anyway; and most confusing of all, his incessant need to check his phone. He took it everywhere and as far as Merlin was aware, never turned it off. He hardly even put it down. Merlin, who frequently forgot to charge his phone and mislaid it nearly as often, couldn’t understand that at all.

Well, as of today, he understood. It was because when you were sucked into the vortex of the Pendragons, your phone _never stopped ringing._

“How does he know this many people?” Merlin said despairingly to Gwen.

“You’ll get used to it,” she said, smiling, which would have been more reassuring if she had not had to say it so many times already. Presumably, being one of Arthur and Morgana’s oldest friends, she knew all these people too. Come to think of it, she _was_ one of ‘all these people’.

Gwen, though, knew how not to be overwhelming. She had exchanged email addresses with Merlin at Morgana’s wedding and they’d met up for coffee a few times before building up to regular weekday lunch dates, during which they would talk about books and make gently snide remarks about their other halves. With a new semester of uni underway, time was in short supply in Merlin’s life right now, but the jeweller’s where Gwen worked was pretty close to campus and more importantly, near a café that did excellent apple muffins.

“Arthur likes company, and Morgana likes an audience,” Gwen went on, taking a bite of her sandwich. “And they both like showing off. They went through a few stages of stealing each other’s friends before they realised it was possible to share.”

“Much shock, so surprise,” Merlin muttered, scrolling through the deluge of texts in his inbox. Two were from Arthur, confirming their weekend plans to visit Hunith, and one was from Morgana, sharing a filthy meme, but there were also messages from Elena (the link to a music video in which everyone wore bright blue make-up and were having identity crises with a tambourine), Gwaine (a rambling stream of consciousness about the language of flowers), Mithian (a brunch invitation) and Mordred, who Merlin didn’t even remember getting properly introduced to but who had apparently acquired his phone number by telepathy – or more probably, Morgana – and wanted to talk about changing the socio-economic foundations of modern civilisation ‘when you have a minute to chat’.

“Do they all want me to text back?” Merlin asked, a little wildly. His eyes itched, reminding him that he’d stayed up until one in the morning to finish his latest essay and would have fallen asleep over his laptop if Arthur hadn’t hauled him to bed and buried him in pillows. “I mean, it’s great that Arthur’s friends want to be friends with me too, I’m glad they like me, but I couldn’t find a minute to brush my hair this morning. I haven’t done laundry in a week. There isn’t enough _time_.”

“You do look tired,” Gwen said, sympathetically. Merlin sighed, and she hastened to add, “That wasn’t a criticism! If you want a shortcut, just answer Elena in emojis. She’ll get it. Send out group emails if you can’t be bothered texting us all back but don’t want to be rude, or just ask Arthur to reply for you, he’s an expert at this.”

“He’s busy too,” Merlin pointed out. “There’s a takeover happening, I’m sure you already know, Caerleon Industries has bought up Chalice Corp. and Arthur’s been in meetings about it all week. He didn’t get in until past ten last night.”

“I did know.” Gwen was looking at him curiously. “About the takeover, anyway. I _didn’t_ know what hours Arthur’s been keeping.”

Merlin’s face heated at the implied question. The truth was, he had been sleeping over at Arthur’s place for nearly a week, except for the couple of nights Arthur had slept over at his. It was the only way they’d see each other, what with their schedules suddenly going mad. Dropping a couple of shifts at the Cavern had hardly made a dent in Merlin’s chaos. His clothes were scattered all over Arthur’s bedroom floor; he was wearing Arthur’s navy blue hoodie right now, a detail he was sure Gwen had noted.

And it was hardly something to be embarrassed about, having a gorgeous and successful boyfriend who didn’t mind having his clothes borrowed and his kitchen populated by someone else’s preferred brand in cereal, but Merlin was self-conscious anyway under Gwen’s interested gaze. He took a deflective mouthful of muffin.

“It’s nice seeing you two together, you make him really happy,” Gwen said encouragingly. “We’re all so pleased he’s finally met someone we like.”

“Who did he date before, axe murderers?” Merlin asked, smiling. The look on Gwen’s face suggested he’d hit rather too close to the mark. “What, that bad?”

“You’re good for him,” Gwen said, neatly avoiding the question and sounding just like Merlin’s mother. She reached into her purse. “I should be getting back to work. Let me pay for lunch.”

She often tried that; Merlin suspected she thought he needed feeding up. It was a genuine crime against the universe that Gwen’s life was too busy for her to have children yet (Lance wanted at least three) because she was going to raise the most well-adjusted humans ever when she got around to it. Merlin insisted on paying his share of the meal and they walked to the bus stop together.

“How long have you known Arthur?” Merlin asked. “It’s like you’re a member of the family.”

Gwen snorted. “I don’t think I’d have the energy. But close enough, I suppose – my mother and Arthur’s were friends. You know that Ygraine was an art restorer? Mum worked at the Avalon Museum too, she specialised in historical clothing. They were a good team. Ygraine insisted on loaning the money to get Dad’s jewellery business up and running, Mum said she was too generous for her own good.” Gwen sighed. “When Arthur was born and Ygraine died, Uther – well, he’s not good at sharing either. He pulled up the drawbridge, so to speak. Not a lot of people were really allowed into their lives after that, but Mum elbowed her way in and took me with her.”

Everywhere Merlin encountered the presence of Uther Pendragon, there were new and innovative reasons to loathe him. Instead of saying _What kind of parent does he think he_ is _, how will I stop myself yelling at him when we next meet,_ the way he wanted to, Merlin went with the more tactful response, “Your mum sounds wonderful.”

“She was,” Gwen said.

“Oh.” Merlin registered all the past tense and gave himself a mental kick. Tact, indeed. “I’m sorry.”

She patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, there’s no point treading on eggshells. Morgana calls us the Lost Mothers Club. It’s morbid, but true. Elena’s mother died, Vivian’s parents had a ghastly divorce, Mithian’s mother went off to find herself and well, didn’t. I think Leon is the only one of our friends who didn’t grow up with a single father. Except for Lance, who’s an orphan. It’s weird if you think about it, but we mostly don’t. I’m sure you can see why.”

“I do,” Merlin said fervently. There were already enough tripping hazards within Pendragon family relations (in which it was not always easy to differentiate between affectionate banter and a declaration of war), let alone in the personal histories of their friends. Though he could not help asking, “How do you get along with Uther?”

Gwen wrinkled her nose. “I don’t, mostly. I don’t have to any more. He did his worst when Arthur asked me out in high school, and he was so relieved when we broke up he’s been fairly civil since, but I can’t tell you how glad I was when Morgana and Arthur moved out of home. No more passive-aggressive commentary on my hobbies! These days he only tends to show up for photo opportunity events – weddings, Christmas, campaign launches…I don’t expect you’ll see too much of him.”

“What a shame,” Merlin said, and Gwen laughed.

They had reached the bus stop. The crossed swords logo of Excalibur Jewellery flapped on a banner across the street. “See you next Wednesday,” Gwen said, smiling over her shoulder as she stepped up to the kerb. Ten minutes and four texts later (who had thought giving Morgause his number was a good idea and would Arthur yell at them if he asked him to), Merlin’s bus drove up and he spent the rest of the afternoon in lectures, taking notes in a spiral-bound notebook because he found it easier to process large quantities of information if he wrote it by hand, and also because Professor Crystal was known to favour students with nice handwriting.

His wrist was killing him by the time he packed up to go, but he had a shift at the Cavern to get through next. He fell asleep on the bus and had to get off at the wrong stop, muzzy-headed and looking, Freya informed him when he arrived at the Cavern, like the Wonderland Dormouse dragged from its teapot.

“Not more literature,” Merlin moaned against his arms, face-down on the bar. “I hate literature.”

“Don’t say that in front of Geoffrey,” she warned him. “And definitely not in front of Mr Fisher.”

Merlin peered up at her in confusion. He knew better than to make jokes in front of the senior librarian – Geoffrey didn’t approve of irony, sarcasm or opinions – but the name Mr Fisher didn’t ring any bells. Until suddenly it did. “Crap. The talk.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Freya said enthusiastically. She had an inexplicable obsession with Regent Fisher’s historical fantasy novels, which he’d been writing long before she was born and were only just now becoming popular with a TV series in the works. His latest book, _The Waters of Life_ , had received rave reviews and a signing tour. Extremely proud of managing to book him in, Geoffrey had brought up the great event so many times that Merlin had lost track of the actual date when it was meant to take place. Fortunately, Freya hadn’t.

“Save me a seat at the front,” she instructed. “I want to hear every word. Do you think he’ll let me take selfies with him afterwards? Oh, and which editions do you think I should bring in for him to sign? I love the originals, but they’re kind of falling apart and the new reprints are so pretty.”

“You could bring both?”

“There’s over twenty books, Merlin, all together I think they weigh more than I do.”

They both straightened up at the entrance of the first customers of the night, two men who ordered Brawls and looked like they might back it up with a demonstration. Freya, who had a very low tolerance for macho bullshit, performed a vanishing act that would do one of her cats proud and reappeared later at a table on the other side of the room, chatting up a girl drinking I Can See Ghosts. Merlin was not at all surprised when they left together at the end of Freya’s shift. He locked up alone and managed to stay awake on the train ride home by playing a game of Gedref’s Labyrinth on his phone, because Arthur was an enabler and had got him hooked on it. He got stuck at dead ends every time. It was a terrible game. He kept playing anyway.

The train stopped. Merlin looked up and realised that he had gone to the wrong home – not his, but Arthur’s.

He had not meant to do that. There was milk going off in his fridge and a toothbrush of his own he hadn’t got around to collecting yet, but he was here now, with the spare keys in his pocket that Arthur had shoved on him with the terse instruction not to lose them, and he was much too tired to over-analyse what appeared to be his new autopilot, so he let himself in as quietly as he could, shucked off his clothes in a trail to the bed and pulled on the worn-out T-shirt he slept in.

Arthur was already asleep; the sheets were warm from his body heat, smelling of his soap and skin. He stirred as Merlin climbed in beside him, eyes cracking open to show a slit of blue, but when he saw Merlin he just made a blurry sound of greeting and went straight back to sleep. His peaceful face was the last thing Merlin saw before his brain shut down for the night.

* * *

When Merlin lurched into Arthur’s shiny steel kitchen the next morning, feeling just this side of human, Arthur was already dressed in his beautifully tailored business suit and perched a barstool, eating banana bread while he read emails on his phone. He must have stopped by a bakery on his way back from the gym. He poured Merlin a cup of coffee without looking up from the screen.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Merlin asked, taking a slice for himself from the table. He made a blissful noise at the first bite. He had not realised until this point that he’d forgotten dinner last night, and proceeded to stuff the rest of the slice into his mouth at top speed.

Arthur glanced up from his phone to give him a ‘I didn’t learn how to use every fork in existence to suffer your table manners’ look, but didn’t actually protest. “I’m just about to leave. It looks like the worst of the transitional issues are over now, anyway, with luck I’ll be getting home before eight tonight – do you want to go out? Have dinner somewhere?”

Merlin hesitated, cheeks stuffed with banana bread. Today was a library day, finishing at six, so it was technically doable, but…

“You look like a starving squirrel,” Arthur observed. “Can you breathe?”

Merlin swallowed. “I’d rather eat in, honestly. Can we just…have pizza and watch TV?” That sounded a lot more boring outside of his head, like he couldn’t be bothered putting on nice clothes and following Arthur to one of the expensive restaurants he liked. Which was true, but not what he wanted to _say_. “I mean, if you really want to go somewhere, then I’ll be – ”

“Does it have to be pizza?”

Relieved, Merlin grinned. “Takeaway of your choice, sire.”

Arthur rolled his eyes at Merlin’s new pet name and ducked in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll text you later. Hey, we could have a _Bourne_ marathon, it’s been ages since I’ve done a rewatch.”

“Why do you only like movies where people beat each other up?”

“Don’t take the moral high ground, Merlin, Shakespeare would have an MA rating. All those armies and assassinations.” Arthur disappeared into the bathroom to clean his teeth and was out the door a few minutes later, with a last command of “Don’t be late!”

Merlin finished the rest of the banana bread, drank two cups of black coffee and gargled with mouthwash to clear the taste of exhaustion off his teeth. It was starting to get cold outside, so he grabbed his favourite battered brown jacket and a blue scarf off Arthur’s bedroom floor. On the way to the library, he decided that he would stay at his flat tomorrow night, on the principle there had to be a reason he was still paying rent on it. He’d probably study better without Arthur wandering out of the shower all wet and shirtless and distracting anyway.

“There you are,” Geoffrey said, giving him a long-suffering look over the help desk, as though he was an hour late instead of five minutes early. Geoffrey had a very limited supply of nice and rationed it stringently. “You can help Morris set up the book display. Mr Fisher is coming in today –” Geoffrey paused to preen, “and I want you to ensure that everything is exactly right.”

The talk was scheduled to start at ten, but Mr Fisher was preceded an hour early by his agent, the very short and very authoritative Mr Bridgeman, who brought in an armful of posters for Merlin to put up and several crates of _The Waters of Life_ to be sold and signed after the talk. Merlin dropped a copy on his foot and nearly broke a toe; if Regent Fisher was as voluble in real life as he evidently was on paper, the audience would be sitting here for a week.

As it turned out, that wasn’t going to be a problem. When the man himself showed up, he had such a hacking cough it sounded like he would keel over at any minute, but he waved off all offers of assistance. Which meant Geoffrey glaring at the back of Merlin’s head for not assisting. The seats in the meeting room filled rapidly as soon as it was opened up; one at the front was seized by Freya, who wore a T-shirt with COURAGE MAGIC STRENGTH: UNITE! printed on the front and was carrying an enormous tote bag stuffed with books. It looked like she’d taken Merlin’s suggestion after all. She threw him a grin as she settled in.

She had tried getting him into Regent Fisher when she had first started reading the books, but characters Merlin liked kept getting killed off (“that’s what makes it so authentic, Merlin, these are the Middle Ages, people died all the time!” “Freya, he was eaten by a _wyvern_ ”) and he’d decided to get into Jane Austen instead. He remembered enough to gather that ‘courage, magic, strength’ referred to the three main heroes, but that was about it, so he just stood quietly to one side while Mr Fisher talked (croaked) about _The Waters of Life,_ tuning in and out during the more incomprehensible bits. Afterwards, Merlin passed out Post-Its for fans to write their names on, to streamline the signature process; Mr Fisher slowed it right down again by talking to each fan until Mr Bridgeman shooed them away.

Merlin spent his lunch break on the back steps of the library with Freya, listening to a blow-by-blow account of her conversation with Regent Fisher (he had, it turned out, been very amenable to selfies), and the whole afternoon listening to Geoffrey’s happy gloating at the help desk. A headache had built up behind Merlin’s temples by two. At six he hurried out before he could get talked into overtime. The headache had only got worse so he decided to take a couple of painkillers and a nap before Arthur got home.

When he woke up four hours later, the headache had only made itself more comfortable, and a sore throat had joined the party. Sitting up made Merlin feel nauseous; he wished the virus had had the decency to wait until he was in his own bed, in his own flat, where he had tea (Arthur didn’t drink it) and soup mix (Arthur didn’t eat it) and a bathroom cabinet stocked by his great-uncle Gaius, who believed in being prepared for all medical emergencies.

The pitiful sounds Merlin was making must have been loud enough for Arthur to hear, because he appeared in the doorway. “You look terrible,” he remarked. Arthur had lots of excellent qualities, but a nurturing instinct was not one of them. “Are you sick?”

“Stupid Regent Fisher’s fault,” Merlin croaked, though he knew that probably wasn’t true.

Arthur sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him with a small frown. He was the sort of person who radiated good health; even running on a few hours of sleep and too much coffee, he could look fresh and capable (admittedly with a tendency to walk into walls). “Do you need anything?” he asked. Arthur hated situations for which he didn’t have a handy set of guidelines. “I can get you water, or juice – ”

Water went down like bleach when Merlin had a sore throat. He wanted _tea_. He told Arthur so and the worried frown cleared. “I’ll get some,” Arthur told him, and left. Merlin waited. He waited some more. He assumed Arthur was Googling how to make tea, or more likely phoning a friend for instructions. Gwen probably drank tea. She was good like that.

It was possible that Merlin’s thought process was not as coherent as it could have been.

He woke up from an uncomfortable doze to see Arthur shrugging off his jacket and putting down a paper bag with _Morteus Pharmaceuticals_ printed on the side. A cup of tea was steaming on the bedside table. Merlin nearly tipped it over in his grab, taking a few grateful swallows. It was a herbal blend, not a favourite of his. It tasted like twenty four years of cold remedies –

“You called Gaius,” Merlin guessed.

“I did,” Arthur said, taking a bottle of cold medicine and a packet of throat lozenges out of the bag. “And I hope you’re grateful, I ran into Nimueh on the way – Morgana’s celebrant, you remember? Black hair, blood-coloured lipstick, creepy vibe – and she wanted to talk about water pollution. By which I mean, she wanted to talk to my father about water pollution and I was the substitute listener. That woman is terrifying. What does she expect me to do, exactly? Stage a coup? Here, drink this, your uncle said it would help.”

He tipped a spoonful of something bitter into Merlin’s mouth. Merlin spluttered. “What was that?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a doctor, I took his word for it.” Arthur removed a thermometer from the bag and pushed it into Merlin’s mouth next. Merlin gurgled a protest around it, which Arthur ignored. Apparently he’d picked up Gaius’ bedside manner over the phone as well. “Shut up, Merlin, you’ll mess with the reading. You have a slight fever. I have instructions for that.”

“Dollophead,” Merlin grumbled.

“You’re a literature student, Merlin, you can’t go around inventing stupid words,” Arthur said firmly. “Don’t let all the Shakespeare go to your head.”

“Can I just go to sleep?” Merlin asked, pathetically.

Arthur thumbed at his phone to check if that was in the rules. “Okay. You can have another spoonful of the medicine in four hours, if you wake up.” Merlin kicked his way free of the doona, grabbing a pillow as he went, and Arthur looked on with narrow-eyed confusion. “What are you doing?”

“Sleeping on your sofa,” Merlin rasped irritably. He remembered the special level of discomfort achieved by Arthur’s sofa and amended to, “Your rug.”

“You’re already in bed,” Arthur pointed out kindly, like Merlin might have forgotten.

“ _Your_ bed, my germs, you’ll get sick,” Merlin garbled.

“Too late now. I’ve faced all manner of horrors in this world, I’m sure I can handle sharing a bed with you,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes and dragging the doona back up. It felt so good that Merlin didn’t argue any more, sinking into the lovely mattress – so much more comfortable than his own – and sliding into sleep. The medicine knocked him out very effectively and he didn’t wake up again until the early hours of the morning. By then his sore throat had eased up a bit; now he had a blocked up nose instead. He crawled out of bed to make himself more tea and found a dozen different packages left piled up on the kitchen counter, like Arthur had taken one look at the selection of teas in the shop and just swept the whole shelf into a basket. Even with his nose turning into a broken tap, Merlin had to smile. His favourite blend was there after all.

While he was up (to a given value of up; hanging on to the fridge door while the kettle boiled totally counted) he called in sick for his shift at the Cavern and texted his mother to cancel tomorrow’s lunch plans. It took a lot more energy than he’d anticipated to make the tea, not leaving enough willpower to get him back to bed; he ended up sliding down the fridge to the floor and sitting there on the cold tiles, drinking little sips of tea and feeling sorry for himself.

“ _Idiot_ ,” was Arthur’s greeting when he got up and found Merlin there. He hauled Merlin back to bed and checked his temperature again. “See, now the fever’s back. Drink this.”

“What did Gaius _say_ to you,” Merlin moaned, but he drank it anyway.

He slept for a while. Arthur was gone when he woke up, but there was a tall glass of iced juice on the bedside table with crackers left over from last month’s party, a note reading _EAT ME_ propped against the plate. Merlin bit into a cracker and reached for his laptop. He could at least make use of the enforced downtime to get ahead with his next assignment.

Except no, he could not, his concentration was all over the shop and he realised he’d read the same paragraph three times without digesting anything more meaningful from it than the spelling of ‘misericorde’. That was clearly going to prove of tremendous use in his daily life. With a groan of frustration, he slapped the lid shut and pulled up his knees, not sure what to do with himself. For lack of anything better to do, he checked his phone and started reading through the pile-up of texts, replying to most of them. Being sick was at least a good excuse for being a slipshod correspondent, he decided, so disseminated the news in as few characters as possible. The tambourine crisis song Elena had sent him proved unexpectedly catchy, now he had a minute to listen to it, and he spent the rest of the morning watching increasingly wild music videos on YouTube. Around noon he looked up from Queen Mab’s _Lost Boys (The Only Way Out is Me)_ at what sounded like the jangle of keys in the front door. Had Arthur forgotten something?

“Hi, Merlin,” Gwen called from the kitchen. “I brought soup. How are you?”

Merlin levered himself off the bed. “Did Arthur tell you to check on me?”

“No, he told Lance,” Gwen said, bringing in a covered bowl and gesturing for Merlin to sit down again. “So Lance made soup, and _he_ asked me to check on you in my lunch break.”

“You really didn’t need to…” Merlin said awkwardly, accepting the soup. It smelled fantastic.

“Someone should have warned you, Arthur tends to overreact to people getting sick,” Gwen said, sitting a prudent distance away from Merlin’s wasteland of tissues. “It could be worse, _he_ could be sick and you could be the one looking after him. As someone who has had to do it, believe me when I say he is the worst patient ever.” She paused, thoughtfully. “No. Morgana is the worst patient ever, she swears at you in her sleep. But Arthur’s pretty bad. Was that tea I saw on the table?”

She made tea and Merlin ate his soup, which tasted like the master-work of a man who had volunteered in soup kitchens for most of his life. Better even than soup, Gwen had brought over a copy of _The Princess Bride_ and watched the first half hour with him, both of them quoting along with their favourite bits. “I should get back to work,” she admitted at last. “I hope you feel better soon. Bring the bowl and DVD to our next lunch, okay?”

Half a dozen ‘get well soon!’ texts landed in Merlin’s inbox over the course of the afternoon, plus the recipe for a revitalisation smoothie from Vivian and a sad face emoji from Elena. It was – quite nice, actually. Perhaps he could get used to this after all.

“You have an army,” he commented to Arthur, when he got home that night. “Is this what mobilising forces looks like? Because it’s impressive.”

“You’re taking the piss out of me, I shall assume you’re feeling better,” Arthur said, sounding exasperated, but there was a smile in the corner of his mouth. He had brought a pizza box, dropping it on the bed next to Merlin then flopping beside it. “You owe me a Bourne marathon, by the way.”

This wasn’t a date. Lying in bed watching action movies on Merlin’s laptop, Arthur in his underwear and Merlin in his pajamas, arguing idly over what constituted an essential pizza topping, this was…well, what dating was for, Merlin supposed – it was about getting to this point. It had been an easy point to miss, because he’d never quite got there before.

“I need to go by my flat,” he said, and didn’t miss Arthur’s quick frowning look at the idea. “I have some Shakespeare DVDs I know you’d appreciate, all those armies and assassinations…”

Arthur threw a pillow at him. “Shut up, Merlin,” he said. He was grinning.

 


End file.
